What Desperate Times Call For
by hills of happiness
Summary: A nuclear holocaust. A powerful Italian army. The end of the Old World and the New. It's high time to take some desperate measures.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

_1 December 2012_

_World War Three_

_

* * *

_

Politicians used to be diplomatic, even if they were nothing else. Nowadays, on the other hand, if you thought a piece of legislation was actually a piece of steaming horse shit, you said so. It saved a lot of time, but sometimes it backfired very, very badly. President Barak Obama massaged his temples with his fingertips, and tried to ignore his migraine.

He was aboard the USNS Yukon, anchored in Lake Michigan. The cramped, dark, and dingy lecture hall he was in held over 205 jabbering senators and 717 yapping representatives, or whatever it was they called those guys from the House of Commons. At least twenty cabinet members were sitting at the front of the hall with him. Interns and pages were spilling coffee and papers. Speechwriters and caterers were standing awkwardly along the walls, unsure why they were there. The gigantic, floor-space eating speakers at the back of the room didn't make the crowd any thinner. They had been Prime Minister Stephen Harper's idea, bless him. He knew they would need them. The hall looked more like a frat party than a congressional meeting. Papers flew, and empty coffee cups were trampled underfoot. Everyone was talking, most people were shouting, some people were trying to grab Harper's microphone off the table. This session should have started fifteen minutes ago; even by today's standards this was a nightmare, this was unacceptable, this – It was motherfucking World War Three. They needed to do something, now.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet, knocking over his rusty metal folding chair, yanked his microphone out of it's table stand, took a deep breath, and screamed,

"Shut up!"

Everyone shut up. Most people did, at least. Representative Steve Austria, from Ohio's 8th district, kept shrieking at this one intern who had spilled coffee over some important document.

Times like this made Obama wish he had more hair, so he could run his hands through it in frustration.

"As we all know, Mexico and Venezuela have recently been seized by the Axis. The Axis powers now possess" he took a deep breath, "over a hundred countries and more than half of the world's landmass. Based on the region's current military strength and the Axis's ruthless speed, experts have estimated they'll have all of Latin America by Christmas."

Shocked silence. Everyone knew the Axis moved fast, because they added the considerable military might of all the annexed countries to their own. But Christmas was less than a month away! How could a continent and a half be conquered in twenty-five days?

"Obviously, they present a pressing threat to us as well."

A thousand pairs of expectant eyes were fixed upon him.

"Now, we're all familiar with the Axis strategy of annexing all countries that share a border with nuclear state. To enable an invasion from all sides, see? The United States of America, a declared nuclear state, has two neighbors. Mexico, Neighbor Number One," here he held up one finger for the slow ones, "has already been captured. Canada, Neighbor Number Two," two fingers, "Is probably next. Our dear Canadian friends-" Half the hall erupted into chaos. Obama took another deep breath.

"A hostile takeover of Canada would be, to say the least, disadvantageous to both nations. Canada would be looking at the complete destruction of its five biggest cities, and probably at least one more nuclear missile detonated in each province. As for the United States-The U.S. border with Mexico was already patrolled to begin with. The long and undefended border with Canada, however, is open to attack-" The other half of the hall leapt to their feet and started rabble-rousing. "Yeah, you're right," snapped Obama, "We're all fucked."

Obama yanked his chair upright and flopped back down on it. He pointed his chin at Stephen Harped and mouthed, _your problem now_. Harper flipped him off.

"So we decided a special alliance would be, uh, highly profitable at this time. America has a lot of nuclear weapons, and although Canada has, regrettably, reversed its position on weapons of mass destruction, we still lack the facilities to create them. What Canada does have is a lot of fluoride and uranium mines, and given the current state of world affairs, that's extremely useful to the United States. Our two cabinets thought it was a good idea to combine our military operations."

The congressmen and women seemed to approve. It made sense, especially because Canada and the United States were already closely allied in the war.

"But then-" Harper swallowed, wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, and said, "we realized that would mean Canada couldn't make a military decision without the full backing of the United States, and vice versa. Because it would be too easy for, say, the United States to deny nuclear weapons to Canada for a campaign they didn't support, and then Canada would have to deny America raw materials, and everything would just spiral downhill from there. If we disagree, like we definitely will, we would all die. Slowly and painfully, by nuclear fallout," He paused to clear his throat, then continued: "And it would also mean that if the Axis infiltrated one of our countries, the other one's military operations would be crippled, and we'd be, as the President put it, fucked anyway. So, not such a good idea after all. But our two countries still need one another's protection, and a normal alliance won't help." He pulled the microphone out of its stand, stood up, and started pacing around the stage."The Allies' best efforts didn't stop the Axis from taking over… Most of the Old World, I believe. Despite more than a million Canadian and American lives lost, to say nothing of the almost thirty million soldiers from other Allied countries, it looks like eight out of the thirteen states capable of manufacturing nuclear weapons will be in Axis hands in no more than a fortnight." Harper stopped talking and looked around the room.

The now sober crowd was quiet, holding private moments of silence for brothers, sisters, and children lost to the nuclear holocaust. A few lucky ones were remembering the ones killed in combat, the ones who had known the risk and gone down heroes. A few more were mourning helpless, pitiable, civilian victims. Most were thinking of both.

"Evasive action needed, yeah?" said Harper carefully. "What we need is more than an alliance, or simply the integration of our armed forces. Integration of our armed forces requires integration of our politics, or the politics will only slow us down. That would be fatal. We have no choice." He swallowed. "Circumstances have forced us to… to combine into a single state."

And all hell broke loose.

"Does anyone have a better way to avoid total annihilation?" shouted Harper over the din, "No? Okay, speak up if you issues with this constitution. Here we go: The temporary state of Anglo-America-," The Blok Québécois burst into even angrier squawks, but everyone ignored them. Harper continued, "Being formed in the dire situation of our current times, shall compose of the combined territories of the United States of America and Canada…"

* * *

"Rahm, my good buddy, my best friend," gibbered America, "What the hell is going on?"

"I'm handcuffing you to Canada," answered Rahm Emanuel, White House Chief of Staff. America found his tranquility extremely inappropriate.

"Yes, obviously. But where are we? Why is he not moving? What's going on at Washington? And why the fuck is this happening?"

"You are in a high-security home straddling the border of Saskatchewan and Montana, guarded by Homeland Security. They're stationed in the cowsheds and such, in case you need them. You were both sedated and tied down, but it seems your drugs have worn off early. And nothing is happening at Washington," replied Emanuel calmly.

"Why?" demanded America.

"Because the Supreme Court is out of session, and the Executive and Legislative branches are on a boat in Lake Michigan, putting the finishing touches on a new state."

"What the fu-"

"A state comprising the combined territories of America and Canada."

America just gaped at Emanuel, who was standing above him, patting his pockets for the key to lock the handcuffs with. America was tied to a hard wooden chair, back to back with Canada, who was pretending to be sedated. And the house. Oh God, it looked like some magical force had ripped his house and Canada's out of their foundations, crunched them together, and shoved whatever was left into, of all things, a quaint little farmstead. Shamefully pink posters of Miley Cyrus lay in plain sight, next to Canada's secret Celine Dion collection. Yankees and Blue Jays caps (he didn't know they even made those) shared the same hat rack near a door that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Swiss bank vault. Outside a window framed by blackout curtains, America could see fields of corn stretching for miles and miles around, with hardly a gardening shed. One of the Secret Service Agents scattered liberally around the snug living room snapped the blackout curtains shut and glared at him. America ignored the Agent. And almost everyone ignored the sound of a chair falling over.

Calgary Flames-themed blackout curtains. Did he seriously have to live here?

"Rahm, why?" croaked America.

"I'll tell you when Canada wakes up."

"Please? C'mon man, I want to know. Besides, how do I know you're not a spy or an imposter? You could be trying to kill us," America wiggled his eyebrows.

"Since you insist," said Emanuel. He took a deep breath. "The Axis strategy of sur-"

The front door of the farmhouse slammed shut. All the Secret Service Agents leapt out the door and chased after Canada.

"That goddamn fox," said America glumly, twisting in his ropes to look at the chair on the floor, an Agents's knife, and the severed knots lying on the floor. "He must have picked that guy's weapons belt with his teeth."

"And no one noticed him?" Emanuel. So refeshingly naïve.

"He's Canada. What do you expect? Handcuff him faster next time."

"But I- oh." One cuff was locked on to America's wrist, the other one locked to America's chair leg.

"Don't think too much about it," consoled America, "Like I said, he's Canada."

"But our boys will get him back."

"If they can find him."

"…Shit."

* * *

**The USNS Yukon is an actual ship, belonging to the US Navy. But it's kind of small, so all those politicians probably wouldn't fit on it. I just thought it had an AWESOMELY appropriate name. **

**This monstrosity was born after I read **_**The Elements of Style.**_** I was like OMG I HAZ TO WRITE SOMETHING**

**And I did.**

**Sucks for you haha**

**It was intended to be part of an epically long fic, but then I was like… wait… what if it sucks. So I'm getting my ideas onto paper (word processor, whatever), posting it, looking at feedback, and THEN I'll write the complete story (maybe). If I continue it the next parts will be about the stuff that happens before this stuff. America and Canada won't come up again for a while, but they'll have a pretty big part in the end.**

**So what do you think? Wanna see more? Is it believable? You have to tell me. If it sucks, you gotta tell me or I won't improve. It'll be an act of charity, redeemable for public service hours on your tax forms or college applications. **


	2. Chapter 1

21 December, 2011

1:00 AM

* * *

Germany took off his reading glasses and put down the book. He marked his page by carefully folding the top left corner in a perfect isosceles triangle. Now, this latest of _How to Win Friends _that he had been reading for three hours, starting twenty two hours yesterday, suggested that it was a good idea to call people once in a while; this was to let your associates know you found them tolerable. For some reason, Germany didn't feel quite comfortable with the idea. Perhaps it had something to do with Austria's feelings about self-help books. "They're useless. Even if they weren't, you wouldn't need them anyway," he had sniffed. This had confused Germany, because _How to Win Friends _had itself said to be considerate of the opinions of others. If Austria's opinion deserved to be considered, then should Germany deliberately flout the advice of the book and ignore Austria? But that would be inconsiderate, wouldn't it? It was a paradox. Then Germany realized that Austria was probably the only person alive more socially inept than he. That made things simpler.

Austria had told him not to listen to the book, Austria was unsociable, therefore he must call, no matter what the cost. Germany steeled himself. Italy was a good person to start with, because Italy was the only person Germany would dare to call at one in the morning. Very well. Germany picked up his cell phone, scrolled through at least fifty different contacts before reaching the I's (whereupon he stopped and made a note to clean his contacts list in his pocket notebook), and took a deep breath. Then he found the "Italy Home" and pressed the call button.

_Ring_

Oh God.

_Ring_

Germany started to panic.

_Ring_

He desperately snapped open the book.

_Ri- _"Hello?" The poor cell signal made Italy's voice crackle.

"Hello, Italy," said Germany slowly. _Be interested how your new friend's feeling, _said the book. "How are you?"

"Very good, Germany. But I'm very busy! I'm working on a new project right now and it's top secret. But the project- it's about stopping war! No more war forever, Germany, won't that be nice? You see, I have this friend, and his name is – Oops, I can't tell you his name! But he has these great ideas and we're doing something really big together, it's really important, you'll see."

Oh no! Germany had stopped paying attention almost immediately. What was he going to say now? Germany yawned. It was very late. Feelings… Be interested in his feelings…

"How does that make you feel, Italy?" enunciated Germany.

"There's so much work to do! I'm a little stressed. But I'm very excited. This is really going to change the world, Germany. Romano's excited too, ve." Although everyone else had recovered, Italy's economy had gotten much, much worse since the slump a few years back. The deteriorating situation had forced Italians to find more creative ways to make money, and presto, Italy was suddenly a technological pioneer. Big guns a specialty. Exports increased one hundred percent, but Italy's economy fell like a rock. Economists were baffled. Germany privately believed that Italy should sort out his own problems before worrying about the world. The world was doing just fine without Italy's help. Focus Germany, he scolded himself.

"…And my friend says they did things this way where he comes from, and there's nothing to be worried about. He said, it's like a shot, ve? It hurts but then you never get sick again. You might hurt for a little bit, but it's okay, Germany, because then you'll never get hurt again. Won't that be nice?"

Germany could hear screeching in the background. _Get off the phone, moron! Mother of God, you're such an idiot! _Angry stomping. The screeching was coming closer. Romano was awake? Italy, both Italies, actually, were being weird- that is, in a different way than they were usually weird. Germany's soldier sense was starting to buzz.

"Romano, it's okay, I didn't tell him. Hey, Romano, that's not very nice-" Italy's voice faded. Germany could hear scrabbling noises. _Don't talk to that bastard-Don't say things like that, he's not a bas-Yes he is! Why did you call him?- He called me beca-WHAT?-because he's nice- WHAT? _Romano wrenched the phone out of Italy's hands.

"Listen to me, potato bastard," hissed Romano. Germany heard quick, angry footsteps, Italy's wailing getting fainter, and danger. Something in Romano's voice sounded very familiar… "Don't you try to stop us, because you can't. And if you say anything to anyone else, you die. Capisce?"

"What's going on, Romano?" Romano was never a threat to anybody, Romano was just a barking dog with no bite, so why, why was Germany's stomach churning, what was going on…

"Don't worry, potato face, we're not going to kill anybody," sneered Romano. "They'll thank us when this is over."

_Beep. _

Silence. Then a dial tone.

Germany removed the phone from his ear and slowly slid it closed. Controlling his emotions was usually something he did well, but you can't control your soldier sense. And Germany's soldier sense was screaming like a banshee on fire. There was something very wrong about this.

The phone in his hand vibrated and rang. Germany blinked in surprise. Who would call at one in the morning? Besides himself, that is. He answered.

"Hello?"

"What do you know about Italy?" demanded Angela Merkle, sounding terribly agitated despite the late hour.

"What? Ita-"

"Yes! Don't play the fool. Tell me everything that he's done this week. I want to know all of his movements. Tell me now, Germany."

"I haven't talked to him much this week, but I just called him, and he said he and a friend are 'planning something big.' It's about world peace-"

"Bullshit! Did you kno-"  
"I'm telling the tru-"

"Italy's a fucking liar! Did you know that we lost contact with every single BND agent in Italy yesterday?

"We have BND agents in Italy?"

"Had."

"What?"

"They're dead."

"What?"

"The agents we sent in to check on them were killed too."

"There has to be some mistake," said Germany. His mouth was dry and the room was spinning, there was no way, no way… And he was just talking to him, the… He didn't even know anymore.

"No mistake. We've suspected there was something going on there for quite some time. The BND got some evidence a while back, but it wasn't enough to justify any action. All German civilians and government workers will be flown out within a week."

"That's a little extreme," said Germany hopefully.

"Germany," hissed Merkle, "France was invaded an hour ago. Italian troops are already up to Lyon, roughly 200 kilometers from the Italian-French border. Before you ask how they could possibly drive a tank that fast, the answer is no one knows. That's not even the worst of what the Italians can do now."

Germany had no words.

"I have more calls to make. Call you back in an hour." Merkle sighed.

_Click._

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* * *

_

When France woke up, he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. The good news was that he was extremely uncomfortable, meaning there was no bed and no need to awkwardly sneak out before the girl woke up. The bad news was he was probably in jail. And it was probably unreasonably early, damn it. He always woke up early when he spent the night on the floor.

For France, this was not an unfamiliar situation. He carefully cracked open his eyes and immediately squeezed them shut again. The light in the room (or the cell) was unbearably harsh. In fact, everything about the cell (he was positive it was a cell now) was harsh. Cold, hard metal floor. Cold, hard metal ceiling. All four walls were two-way mirrors, reflecting the unnatural light to infinity.

Ugh. What had he done this time?

His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and he generally felt like shit. This was one of the worst hangovers of his life. Damn it. Well, at least he could look respectable for the cops who were no doubt watching him from behind the mirrors (seriously, who the hell needed four two-way mirrors). He tried to sit up, and- damn! He could feel the blood rush out of his head. Blackness spread throughout his field of vision. Something warm got into his eyelids and eyes, which gummed up and stung like hell. He had the migraine of a lifetime. Defeated, he fell back on the floor. That time in 1940 couldn't even compare to this -

Then he stopped.

He felt his hair, and it was wet and sticky. He still couldn't see, but his hands smelled like blood.

He probed the back of his head. His fluttering hands found the hole, framed with jagged, splintered bone. So, not a hangover after all.

France lay back down, wishing he could die. The bullet probably went in the back and came out the center of his forehead. And his forehead was on his face, damnit. And with all the cops and medics that were no doubt watching, it was going to be hard to hush this one up. Huh. Now would be a good time to take a nap and hope all his problems solved themselves before he woke up. There wasn't a stick of furniture in sight, not even a door, so he gingerly curled up on the floor and closed his eyes.

"France! You're awake!"

"Hello, Italy," France replied without thinking. He would recognize that sweet angel's cheerful voice anywhere. Even in jail, with his eyes still not working and his brains blown out. Where had Italy even come from?

"France, get up," whined Italy. He crouched next to him.

"Ah, no thank you, my dear," Italy was a very lovely boy, but why wouldn't he just leave? He vaguely remembered Mendès telling him something about French people Italy-

Oh.

Oh shit. So it was true. Italy really had gone rogue. He had been annexed by Italy. Oh, the shame!

I have something to tell you, France," chirped Italy. He poked France's forehead. Hard. France screamed. Slivers of bone were pushed into his brain, his splintered skull plate shifted, and the exit of the tunnel a bullet had bored in his head threatened to close. Italy looked mildly surprised. "Why are you screaming, France? There's no one to hear you except me." Italy looked around. "Well, there are those people," he said, motioning to the wall to wall two way mirrors, "but it would probably be bad to let them hear you. They would laugh, you see."

France, panting heavily, blinked hard a few times. He could see a blurry Italy crouching next to him. Even half-blind, he could see Italy's satisfied expression, like a kid who found out he was going to get new Nintendo 3DS for Christmas. Italy didn't care for video games. What did he get?

"Why," rasped France, "did you shoot me?"

"Oh no, that wasn't me. Romano did that last night. But it wasn't anything personal, big brother. We didn't want to hurt you. But we had to, you see. Because we need your bombs."

"We? Bombs?"

"Me and Romano and our friend- ve, he's really nice and smart and strong! You'll see; he's coming to visit you later. We need your –what are they called? New- nukes! Yeah, that's it," Italy snapped his fingers and beamed. "We need nukes. Ve, that's right."

"So you took all my nukes," said France wearily.

"Sorry, big brother. But we don't know how to make them, so we had to take yours. I hope you don't mind."

"Anything for you, darling," He closed his eyes and silently willed this stranger to go away. This imperialistic whackjob with affection for weapons of mass destruction was just not working for him. He wanted his silly, pasta-loving, man-child brother back.

"Italy," he said suddenly, "what do you want from me?"

"Thanks, but we don't need anything, big brother France! It's not about you anymore, you see, it's about the world. The whole world," Italy's eyes were shiny and round, "Thanks for letting us have your warheads. You can take it easy now. Hey, I bet my friend will make you so happy you won't ever want to leave. Well," here Italy tapped his chin, "not that you could, anyway. Huh."

France was speechless. In his self-centered way, he had assumed that Italy would stop the imperialistic dickery after colonizing just one superpower. Not only was he, France, apparently very self-centered, but also very dense. There was no way Italy would take his nuclear weapons for fun. There were serious games afoot. He had to warn somebody, anybody.

"Hey Italy, if I'm in jail, don't I get my one phone call?" wheedled France.

"You're not in jail, silly! I gotta go now. Bye!" Italy patted France on the head and stood up.

"Wait!" called France, "If we're not in jail, where are we? A POW camp?"

"It's a surprise!"

"Wait, Italy-" But by the time France had rolled over, Italy was already gone. France couldn't figure out how; he couldn't see any doors or window. Just the ceiling lamp. Come to think of it, that did not look anything like an electric light. What was it?

Feeling sorry for himself, France lay on the floor like a limp dishrag. He was locked up like a lab rat. Romano had shot him in the back of his head. And he had been annexed. By Italy, of all countries. There was no way out, no way to warn anyone. From the pain and desperation he was feeling, his people were probably being slaughtered in the streets. Beyond caring about putting on a strong face, France sobbed.

* * *

_ SEINE OVERFLOWS WITH BLOOD, TEARS_, read England.

What? The Guardian too? He never thought the Guardian, of all papers, would give in to sensationalist journalism.

_In a devastating surprise attack, Italy invaded France at midnight. The Italian army and air force made short work of the French, slaughtering militants and civilians alike. France was theirs before dawn. Light Italian tanks trundled down to Paris just like any automobile, casually dispatching any and all passerby. French troops sealed in heavy tanks and armed with howitzers, missiles, and all the best of modern weaponry, intercepted the Italian forces at many points on their journey to Paris. According to survivors, the Italians didn't even flinch. Their superhuman weapons arsenal flattened the French, and the tanks kept rolling. "I never thought weapons like that could exist," said Juan-Pierre (not his real name) age 64, an eyewitness and a refugee in Switzerland. "They just shot once and boom! One of our tanks exploded. Then they shot again, and another tank exploded. We kept firing, but they didn't feel it at all. They didn't even have to slow down. They even drove straight through the burning ruins of our machines. Luckily they didn't see me, or I would be dead. They even fired shells at all the empty farmhouses and burned the fields." When asked why he was so calm, Juan-Pierre simply answered, "The world needs to know," then started tearing up._

_But the Italian tanks never had to reach Paris. An estimated two hours after the first tanks rolled in, the Italian air force took off for Paris, eliminating absolutely everything in their path. No Italian bombers were shot down over French territory. They reached Paris in an astounding fifteen minutes–_

Enough. What kind of joke was this? Death was not funny. England flipped through the rest of the paper. _Red Cross Sets Up Refugee Camps- _Useless. _Italy's Neighbors Tighten Borders-_ No. _Iberian Peninsula Cut Off by Italian Invasion_- Preposterous. His heart fluttered with fear, but who cared. He would cancel his subscription to the _Guardian_ immediately. Actually, right after he took this call. He swiped his buzzing cell phone from the table, slid it open, and said, "Germany?"

"England," he said gravely, "Have you heard what's happened to France?"

"Oh, don't be a fool. It's just some nonsense fear mongering." England wondered who he was trying to convince.

"It's not. The BND has collected incriminating evidence, and it appears that plans for this invasion have been in the works for years."

"Pardon me," said England helplessly, "but what's the BND?"

"It stands for Bundesnachrichtendienst, or foreign intelligence service. As you can see, this direct and unprovoked attack is unacceptable and violates-"

"Um," said England, "Hang on a sec. You don't actually believe this, do you?"

"It's true."

"Right. Just, uh- wait a moment…" He put Germany on hold and ran to open the door. "You need to knock louder," he snapped. The little fairies nodded slowly with their eyes full of tears. England was startled. They were usually so happy! "Did anything, um, happen?" They nodded again.

The shrubbery on England's lawn rustled, and hundreds of fairies with beautiful long hair and red flashing eyes floated towards the door. "Refugees?" The English fairies nodded again. Refugees. Breton fairy refugees. From Brittany, France. Damn it all. He hated Breton fairies, he really did. At least they wouldn't be able to come into the house without permission. Oh, but there was a birdbath on the lawn, wasn't there? And a well in the backyard? Goddamn it, there was no way he was going to get rid of them. And if he slammed the door, like he very much wanted to, they were going to hate him. Then they would probably breathe at him or seduce him or something, and he would die.

The English fairies tilted their heads. England blinked. The entire door was filled with fairies. He couldn't see anything but tittering two foot high floozies.

He could die, or let them in. It was a lose-lose situation. England sighed. "All right, come in," he said, and a river of French fairies erupted from the door. They bowled him over, flooded his house, and immediately made themselves at home around his electric kettle, his fishbowl, and glasses of water. Sitting on the floor, England realized there was something terrible going on in France after all, but it wasn't just a human war. The fey didn't give two shits about what type of human was killing who. This was a disaster of two kinds, natural and political. England tried not to feel too bad for France.

There was magic involved. England waded through the fairies, picked up the phone, and said, "I believe you now."

"… Really?" Germany was surprised.

"Yes, and you're right, it's absolutely intolerable," snapped England, glaring at the English fairies that had brought the insufferable Breton Korrigans to his land. "We have to save that frog as soon as possible. But I don't believe we're dealing with normal people."

"So what are we dealing with?" said Germany patiently. England was a little strange sometimes. In his experience, it was best to just keep agreeing.

"Dunno exactly yet. I'll have to do some research on Italian folklore."

"And the normal people, England? Any ideas?" Germany grimaced. He couldn't believe he just said that.

"Um, I think a nuclear strike would be a bit premature, but let's not rule it out. Italy's moving very fast, and we need to take exceptionally drastic action. I'll talk to Scotland and Wales and them. So, uh, is there a plan?"

"Can you make it to a video conference call at ten? Greenwich mean time" It was seven in the morning.

"Probably. Would you like me to invite my brothers for you?"

"Please do."

"This is an EU thing, right?"

"Yes."

"Right. Okay, then. Uh, bye."

England ended the call, dropped the phone, and ran upstairs to his office. "Shoo!" he shouted. He flapped his hands at the Korrigans playing with his broadband cable. "Piss off!" A cloud of French fairies rose and flew away, tittering. England yanked out his chair and sat down in front of his ancient ThinkPad. After kicking around a bit to dislodge the Korrigan enjoying the hot air coming out of the vent under the desk, he aggressively tore open the dirty old PC. Being less stupid than he looked, he ran through at least five proxies before even daring to search for black magic in Italy.

* * *

**In my head, England is just England, not the UK. Him, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland make up the UK- there's no one person. That's just what I think.**

**Ugh this was so slow to write! It wasn't hard or anything, just really really slow. I expected to be done in a couple of days, since school's out, but it was more like a couple of weeks. Hopefully it's worth the effort. **

**AND THE WORLD CUP OMG SPAIN TOTALLY BEAT PORTUAGAL WOOOO I got up at like 2:30 am to watch that. Sucks because Portugal deserved a place in the quarterfinals… just not as much as Spain. Life's unfair sometimes. **

**May I have some criticism, please? C'mon, do you to part make the world a place with more beautiful flower-y writing and fresh spring air-y prose. Or, you know, gushing flattery is good too. Review!**


	3. Chapter 2

**LOOK! I GOT FANART! **

**Done by the sexy, wonderful, amazing America La:**

**clearence- puppy. deviantart. com /# / d2t3kug**

**Hoooooly shit that is one scary Italy. I got prickles down my neck when I saw that. Thank you, America La! You're a very talented artist. (Oh God, I'm gonna have nightmares now.)**

**I got a little stuck, so I decided to do something that wasn't originally going to be a big part of the plot. Just a short little mini-chapter featuring Spain, because he's awesome like that. But then I realized how easy it would be to weave this into the plot and make it come back later in a super awesome "holy crap I remember that" moment! So read carefully. You'll need to remember this.**

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* * *

**

Spain knew he really shouldn't be eating breakfast at the computer. Food could get stuck between the keys, or coffee could spill on it and damage the wiring. It had happened many times before, after all. In fact, it happened so often that Spain had become very good at fixing his keyboard. He once even fixed France's keyboard after England broke it into little pieces. Pliers, Elmer's glue, and Scotch tape were all he needed. Sure, maybe it broke again the next day when France lifted it off the table too fast, but the point was that Spain had got it working again, even if it was just for a little while.

So Spain found it difficult to care too much about food or drink spilling on his keyboard. It wouldn't do anything permanent. He yawned, stretched, and squirmed around. Then he noticed he was still holding his coffee cup, and some coffee had slopped on his desk. Oops. None on the keyboard, though! Spain grinned. He was a lucky guy. Carefully, he wiped the bottom of the cup with a tissue so it wouldn't leave rings on the table, and put it down on the desk. While heading into the spotless kitchen to retrieve his special dark-liquids-mopping rag (folded into precise sixths and resting in its special place right under pot of saffron on the spice rack, and between the flour-mopping rag and the rag for colorless liquids, which were both folded into perfect sixths as well), he glanced at the clock.

It was ten-thirty in the morning, and he had a conference video chat in half an hour. Something about France and Italy? Italy did something to France? He wasn't too sure what happened, but it sounded unbelievably bad. The French refugees on his land sure made it sound bad. Spain felt like they didn't deserve such a hard lot in life, so he sent them some food. A lot of food, actually. The Red Cross used trucks to carry it away. Romano would have been angry, if he was there, thought Spain. He could see Romano now, shouting, "You what, moron? You wasted that much money on stupid Frenchies? I didn't think it was possible, but you're dumber than them! Mother of God!" And Spain would look all hurt and ask Romano why he was so being so mean, but Romano would keep shouting, "Why didn't you use government funds? You can do that, you know! Can't you think, or do I have to do that for you too?" Spain would look sad and say something about gifts from the heart, and Romano would get up in his face, and shout, red-faced, spit flying everywhere, "Why did you get fresh food, stupid? Half of it's going to rot before it's eaten. You are absolutely unbelievable! What- how-don't you start smiling while I'm mad, you dumb clown!" Well Romano, what would you have done differently? Spain would ask coyly. Romano would shout that, unlike Spain, the retarded son of a brainless donkey and a turnip, he got them canned soup and dried fruit; then he would suddenly stop shouting, because he was too embarrassed to finish his sentence.

Aww.

Well, the Romano in Spain's head was wrong, because the Red Cross told Spain they always divided donations of fresh food between lots of different camps so everyone could eat and there wouldn't be any leftovers, so there. Spain gently lifted the dark liquids rag from its place on the counter, careful not to disturb the five other rags lined up next to it. Suddenly, something on the shiny chrome pot of saffron caught his eye. A flash of movement reflected in the silver surface. Spain didn't like it. He pretended to polish the pot with the rag, and started counting seconds. There! Again!

He couldn't wait; he had to do something now, or he was going to lose this fantastic opportunity. He really was a lucky guy. Really, it was a miracle he wasn't already dead.

Just in case there was more than one pair of eyes watching, Spain glanced behind him at the locked sandalwood cabinet hanging on the wall as casually as he could. It was next to a wide-open window. He reached into the biggest pocket of his cargo pants, as if to take out the keys.

He shuffled over to the sandalwood cabinet next to the window as loudly as he could, to cover the sound of the taser charging up. Slowly. Slowly. Okay, he thought, five seconds. Four. Three. Two.

He pulled the taser out of his pocket.

One.

He aimed.

Zero. _Crack!_

Hit! Spain didn't even check who he hit, it was someone with a gun creeping outside his window, and that was enough. His finger was staying on the trigger. The twin wires kept buzzing. He whipped his head from left to right, checking for an accomplice.

None? How careless.

Still holding down the trigger, Spain held the taser far away from his body and carefully climbed out the window. Once he was out, he yanked the still-active taser away from the window, dragging the humming wires out of the kitchen and onto the floor of the open-air hallway that connected every apartment on the floor. Feverishly, Spain hoped the neighbors were watching. The more witnesses the better. He stepped on the gun with his rubber-soled sneakers and dragged it away from the creep. That was one heavy gun. Spain backed up, with the gun under his foot, until there was a safe distance between himself and the man on the floor (or he thought it was a man. He hadn't looked closely).

Only now did he release the trigger. The wires went silent. Only now did he look at the creep's face.

Well, he couldn't say it was a surprise.

"Romano."

Romano lifted his head, and he smiled. Now, of all times! Unlike Spain, Romano was stingy with his smiles, which made them much more valuable. But this wasn't the same smile that could light up a dark room at midnight, or set a heart on fire. This was different.

"So you're not a complete failure after all," said Romano. Oh, thought Spain. Abuse. This was a little more like it. "You put up a much better fight than France."

Spain raised one eyebrow very, very slowly. Just like almost everything Spain did, that had always bothered Romano. He couldn't raise his eyebrows independently. He thought it was creepy.

"North Italy's getting Portugal right now," said Romano.

Spain raised his other eyebrow very, very slowly.

"Getting? That means," he said, "you're planning to take her somewhere." He kicked the gun under his foot into the air and caught it. A weapon in each hand, he trained both on Romano's chest. He said, "You're bringing her to the place you brought France."

"Pretty good, for a nut like you," Romano replied. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Compliments? Smiles? How odd. He must be planning something special for Boss Spain. Spain strode briskly towards Romano, flipped the taser to Drive Stun mode, and shocked him.

He had been lenient before. Normally, getting shocked by a taser made you lose control of your muscles, but it didn't hurt. But Drive Stun was special. The taser had to touch the victim's skin, it only shocked for a moment, and it was designed for 'pain compliance.'

"Where are you taking her?" demanded Spain. He jabbed the barrel of the monstrous gun under Romano's chin. They stared each other down.

Suddenly, Romano yanked the gun out of Spain's hand with a strength he never knew he had. Quick as a flash, he hit Spain with the heavy barrel, sending him reeling. Romano aimed the gun at Spain. Spain recovered and aimed the taser right back at him.

"I knew you wouldn't have the balls to fire," breathed Romano.

"Neither do you," smirked Spain. "How many opportunities have you had, you hypocrite? How long were you watching me? You could shoot me right now, but you're not shooting. Give it up." Spain switched his taser out of Drive Stun and back to long range.

Romano didn't answer.

"You were always a lousy with your hands, so you'd probably miss anyway. Ever since you got chorea. Remember that?"

No response.

"Romano," sighed Spain, "don't make me regret curing you."

Romano gritted his teeth.

"Dancing," he said, with difficulty, "does not cure disease."

Spain waggled his finger.

"Yes it does. But you're right, maybe I shouldn't take all the credit. I barely had to teach you anything, because you, my friend," he teased, "are an exceptionally fine dancer." A hint of a smile graced Spain's lips.

Romano glared at him venomously and aggressively raised the sight of the gun to his eye.

"Romano," Spain said softly, "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." Slowly, without any sudden moves, Spain lay his taser on the ground. "You're not going to need that. Put it down," he said.

Romano, stiffly, lowered it a little. He stared at Spain in bewilderment and anger.

"What?" he croaked.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Put down down the gun, _please_," said Spain with a grin.

Romano shook his head, but he lowered the gun even more.

"On the ground."

As if in a trance, Romano let go of the gun. It clattered to the floor.

"Now," coaxed Spain, "where are you taking Portugal?"

Romano dove for the gun and pointed it at Spain's face. Spain didn't waste any time being surprised, and grabbed his taser off the floor. Damn it all, why weren't the cops here yet?

"Bad move, Spain," growled Romano. He was trembling. "You know I can't tell you that, even if I wanted to."

"No one can make you do anything you don't want to do," said Spain levelly.

"Hah!" barked Romano, "you don't know anything. It's either you or me." He raised the sight of the gun to his eye again.

"You wouldn't." said Spain calmly, without fear. The batteries in Spain's taser wouldn't last forever. And if he shocked him now, Romano would only get angrier. It was all out of his hands now.

"I would."

"You wouldn't"

"What the hell do you know? Shut the hell up, shut up, just shut up-"

"Romano, I-"

_Bang!_

* * *

**just another fma fan: Haha YESSS England's part last chapter was so much fun to write. I don't get why he has so many haters. He's like Arthur Dent from the **_**Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy**_**, only grumpier. "The world's coming to an end, eh Ford? I hope you don't expect ME to do anything about it. Now piss off, and get me a cup of tea while you're at it."**

**Maybe I shouldn't say spoil this, but no, he's not going to find anything helpful in Italian folklore. But he will find clues somewhere else…**

**About Spain: Remember how Spain's "two-faced"? The show Criminal Minds (hooray for learning things from TV) has led me to believe Spain would be a colder, less blatantly criminally insane "organized killer," if he, y'know, killed people. So his dark side would most likely be kind of neurotic, which means he would be really careful about leaving evidence around, and more important for our purposes, a neat freak. So that's why he's so clean.**

**I tried to make it clear where Spain was switching from moderately happy to moderately crazy mode (he's not in murderous conquistador mode just yet), and where it was kind of in between. **

**Portugal may or may not be important later.**

**Thanks for the postive reviews, guys!  
**


	4. Chapter 3

**3pm, December 1****st****, Central Time/10pm, December 1****st****, Greenwich Mean Time**

**Suburbs of Dallas, Texas.**

**

* * *

**England rolled his rental car into America's driveway, muttering under his breath all the way. He had just flown ten hours from Heathrow to Dallas, he was jetlagged, he was grumpy, and he didn't want to talk to stupid people. Why did he still tolerate that pig? The more he thought about it, the more England believed that flying across time zones from east to west should be against the law. Today, of all days, shouldn't have to be made any longer than it had to. Now he had to talk to America. America, the one in the pink wig. Arguing with Mexico, again.

Well, two wrongs didn't make a right, but maybe two fools canceled each other out. England forced himself to feel wretchedly optimistic.

The Korrigan in the backseat of the rental car rattled the bars of her pet crate angrily. Honestly, if England was determined to inflict pain on himself, he had no right to put her through it as well.

"Sorry, sweetheart," smirked England, "I have a job for you." And he had no sympathy for French fairies. She blew a raspberry at him. Respecting grown men who cried in their sleep on the plane was not something she did. They're dead, they're dead! she mocked. Boo hoo! England wanted to kill her, but he couldn't. Instead, he glared at America, who was arguing with Mexico, rolled down the window and shouted, "You racist bastard!"

"That's just what I said!" said both America and Mexico at once.

"For all your talk of diversity this and tolerance that, you're still the same Christian hick you always were," continued England. He slammed the driver's door shut and pulled the empty pet crate out of the backseat with more violence than necessary.

"I'm not Christian!" protested America.

"I'm sure. Could I talk to you two for a second?"

"Hey England, you have a dog?" said Mexico.

"You're already talking," said America.

"For God's sake, take off that wig," snapped England.

"There's nothing in the pet crate," said Mexico.

"Iggy has imaginary friends," said America.

"Could we, just for a moment, discuss something seriously?" said England, exasperated. No one paid any attention, but Mexico burst out laughing. England wanted to throttle him.

"Dude," he said, "don't talk about other people having imaginary friends until you take off that wig."

"Oh, stuff it!" snapped England, "Obviously, I can't control both of you at once. You, inside," said England firmly, steering America into the house.

"Hey! Don't ditch, man, not cool," said Mexico.

"Stay out of this; this is nuclear superpower talk!" shouted England, before he slammed the screen door shut. Then he realized he forgot something. "Where's the Kor- I mean, crate?" he added hastily. Mexico, holding the irritated Korrigan, glared at him through the screen door. "Thanks very much," said England, flustered, before grabbing the crate and shutting the door more politely. Immediately inside the door was a cramped and haphazardly furnished living room. It looked as if, for the past fifty years, America had been adopting all the pieces of furniture sitting on Dallas curbsides that caught his eye. He shoved the Korrigan under an exotic-looking coffee table. "So did you hear about what happened to France?"

"Yeah, I heard. But not many people on this side of the pond believe it," he said, shrugging, "I mean, we didn't get any intelligence on it or anything, so they're checking with a few agents in France. See if it's true." He was already sprawled on a tatty white fabric armchair, making faces at Mexico through the screen door. Obviously, he had no clue what was going on.

"And you don't think it is?"

"Nah. It's a giant hoax. Things like that don't happen anymore," said America confidently.

"That's what I thought too," said England, sitting, rather gingerly, on an unstable-looking cane stool that creaked and shifted, "but unfortunately, it's real."

America studied his face.

"Very funny."

"No, really." England raised his eyebrows (which was more out of the ordinary than one might believe, because of the sheer tonnage of eyebrow that needed raising). America squinted at him.

"Okay, whatever, I'm not going to bother arguing with a crazy limey like you. Pretend I believe you and keep going."

"Good. I'm here on official business from the E.U. Special Advisory Board. We've received word from a trusted source that Spain and Portugal are in trouble too."

"Oh man, oh no, this is terrible!" said America, clutching his face in mock terror. England breathed deeply through his gritted teeth.

"The rest of Europe needs anti-ballistic missiles, and we were hoping you would help us with that. Just approve or disapprove the transaction. Whatever floats your boat," said England, patting his pockets for the official statement he had drawn up before leaving home. He pulled out a folded, crumpled, and jam-stained document and threw it at America, with more force than necessary. "Sign. I know I have a pen somewhere…"

"Wait a sec," said America, "I know that it doesn't really matter if I sign or not, 'cause the government's the one deciding for real, but I'm not going to do anything official about your little conspiracy unless it's officially sending you a shrink."

England wanted to kill him too. Swimming before his eyes, the faces of France, Spain, and Portugal egged him on. Unfortunately, he could only glare at America and his irritating ugly face. And get angrier.

"You," he snapped, "you're the one forever chasing UFO's, and crying like a baby over every scary film, and tossing far too many tax dollars into deep space. I cannot believe that you, of all people, cannot believe this. Unlike Moon colonies or silly escapist Hollywood fantasies, this is real. This is happening right now. Obviously you don't appreciate that this is a matter of life and death. Perhaps you just don't care."

"Excuse me," said America cheerfully, because he took abuse much worse than this every day, "but is this coming from the man who still believes in fairies?"

England turned red and spluttered. The Korrigan started ramming the sides of the box so angrily that the table in was under started jumping. America didn't notice either of them. Deep breaths, thought England. Remember, he can't help that he's stupid.

"Your government," he hissed through gritted teeth, "is trying to contact intelligence agents in France."

"Yeah?"

"And they haven't found them yet."

"Yup. But they're probably asleep. I'm not too good with time zones, but it must be like, two o'clock in the morning over there."

"Shouldn't you be able to get a hold of CIA agents at any time of day?" pressed England.

"Yeah, I guess. But they could've all gotten, I don't know, wasted or something. Not like there's much French intelligence to report on, am I right? Can't blame them for getting smashed once in a while," said America uneasily.

"You must be my greatest failure," hissed England, "I thought I taught you better than to speak ill of the deceased."

"I didn't insult anyone!"

"France is much more intelligent than you will ever be, you hypocrite," said England coldly.

"What?" said America, confused, "Oh, hey, I didn't mean it like that! When I said French intelligence, I meant- wait. Hold on a sec. Did you just say something nice about France?"

England was mortified beyond all belief. All the righteous anger went out of him and he flushed tomato red. Oh God, he would never, ever live this down. Oh God. It must be jet lag! Damn that jet lag!

"Please don't tell anyone," he begged.

"Holy shit, this must be serious," said America, much impressed, "Wait, but you said… the deceased… France is DEAD? England, we gotta do something about this!"

"We can't do anything anymore. It's over. And remember, regrettably enough, there's a slim chance he's not actually dead," said England, tight-lipped.

"Yes we can. As soon as the agents get back to us-"

"The agents are definitely dead," said England harshly.

America was silent.

"Wait, just like that? England, what the hell's happened to them?"

"You've heard about France, right?" said England. America nodded. "No one knows much about Spain and Portugal, but Morroco saw the nukes go off."

"What!" America was aghast. "Nukes? You're kidding. Tell me everything, England, from beginning to end."

England sighed.

* * *

Everyone noticed Spain and Portugal weren't at the E.U. special advisors' meeting, but no one really cared. They had probably forgotten and gone Christmas shopping or something. No one was too surprised that they were missing. But they were very surprised when Morocco called.

_The Kingdom of Morocco has requested to join your conference call _bubbled twenty-six computers. Germany, the leader of the conference, blinked in surprise. He accepted the request.

"Guys, guys," gabbed Morocco, "you need to see this." He turned the webcam so it was facing a window. Outside, there was a beach, a sea, and a sky. Nothing extraordinary.

"What?" said Hungary.

"Keep watching," said Morocco tersely. They all watched for a few moments.

"I don't get it. What are w-" and that was as far as she got. A wild bright light lit up the sky, like God was trying to punish the Earth with flash photography. Everyone had to turn away from their computer screens to protect their eyes. The light stayed for a few seconds, and then disappeared. While twenty-seven countries were still blinking away the shadows that had been burned into their corneas, there was an almighty boom so loud it rattled twenty-seven windows.

"What the hell was that?" gasped Hungary.

"Sorry, what?" Morroco's ears were ringing.

"What the hell was that?" screamed Hungary.

"A warhead," said Morroco, rubbing his eyes. "That was the closest impact so far, so I'm guessing it was… Lisbon or Seville. Probably Lisbon."

Silence.

"I can't believe it," muttered Poland, "Did we do something wrong today, or has Italy like, always been like this and we've just been too wrapped up in ourselves to notice?"

"Damn, this is serious," said Wales reflectively, "I think first of all, everyone needs anti-ballistic missiles."

Everyone looked at England.

"Why me?" he moaned

Wales cackled.

* * *

"And that," finished England, "Is why I'm here."

"Okay," said America, "That's cool. But what going on with Spain and Portugal and France?"

"What do you mean? I just told you," said England.

"I mean, what's going on with them? Is anyone even going to try to find out if they're okay?"

"Um, we're just trying to survive at present."

"Is anyone in one of the occupied country trying to rebel? I mean, whatever's left of their armed forces should still be trying to fight, right?"

"America, they're-"

"Italy's being really scary, yeah, but he probably won't go very far. Remember how Japan tried to conquer Asia that one time and he ran out of people to-"

"America-"

"But how can we fight them? I don't think we should start dropping nukes on Italian civilians yet-"

"America!" shouted England.

"Don't call me that!" snapped America.

England blinked at him in surprise.

"What? But that's your name!" said England. America cringed.

"Never mind. Continue," said America hastily.

"Amer- uh, this is not your war. You're right, Italy can't keep going forever, and certainly not at this pace. The U.K. doesn't believe it's time to stoop to Italy's level and start vaporizing civilians. Austria suggested surrounding and invading Italy from all sides, and that's what we advised the E.U. to do. We won't have to hurt anyone in an occupied country, and it should be over quickly. Italy can't possibly have so many soldiers out in the field and maintain a strong defense at the same time."

"Are you sure you don't want my help?" said America, "France just sent me a really cool little coffee maker thing and I kind of owe him."

"Positive. You stay out of this."

"Okay," sighed America. "Guess you're right. Hey, why'd you come all the way over if it was just to ask me for an OK? Not like you really need these things. The government would send yall the missiles even if I said no."

"Not the only reason. Erm, can I see your basement?"

"Yeah sure," said America, waving his hand in the direction of the basement door.

"Thanks," said England. He picked up the empty pet crate and opened the door.

* * *

Looking into the basement was like looking into the yawning mouth of a beast, or a very deep well; the kind little boys fell into. He wasn't a little boy anymore, of course, but this place sure made him feel like one. The basement felt soulless. It was cold and dirty, and there was an inexplicable feeling to it, one that let you know, as soon as you felt it, that this was a place unloved and unlived in, and a place that didn't want you to love it or live in it either. It wasn't anybody's home. It wanted you to go away, and take all your wretched happiness with it. "What a miserable place," muttered England. He turned on the lights, but that didn't make it any better. All he could see was part of a stairwell; the rest was hidden in harsh black darkenss.

The Korrigan whimpered and scuttled around. Suddenly, she started thumping the walls of the pet crate. Was this what he brought here for? She wanted to be let out, right now. Right now. This was not a good place. She wanted to go back to Brittany, she didn't want to go on, she never got to say goodbye to her sister-

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I won't let anything happen to you," whispered England. He carefully stepped down onto the nasty-feeling stairs and swung the basement door closed behind them with a long, rusty, unhealthy creak and a click like the sound of teeth clacking together. Together, England and the Korrigan started the long walk downstairs. His footsteps echoed.

_Boom…_

_ Boom…_

_ Boom…_

The Korrigan started to cry.

"What's the matter?" whispered England. He kept descending into the basement.

The Korrigan started crying even harder. Between sobs, she managed to choke out that the terrible feeling hanging in the air was horribly, terrifyingly familiar. It felt like danger and death. It was evil.

"Don't be silly. You didn't die the first time you felt it. Besides, I don't feel anything," lied England. His heart was beating in his throat. There was something very wrong about this basement. Nevertheless, he kept walking deeper into the darkness.

The Korrigan cried harder than ever before, but she nodded. England was right. There was nothing to be afraid of. She wiped away her tears, but she kept turning paler. Shaking and covering her face with her hands, she told England to continue walking, there was nothing the matter.

England stopped and lifted the pet crate to eye level. The poor fairy didn't even notice. She was too focused on trying not to pass out. A wave of guilt broke over him, adding its weight to the fear that already hung heavily on him. Who was he kidding; this place scared the willies out of him. He turned and ran, feet pounding the stairs as hard as they could, heart pounding harder, sure that at any second, something was going to leap out from the darkness and snatch them, and do unspeakable things to them, and they would never, ever see the sun again- He shoved open the door at the top of the stairs with his shoulder and fell down, panting, still holding the pet crate. Almost before he hit the ground, he kicked the door shut, slamming it on the beast. They were safe from it, for now.

America regarded England with an amused look on his face. "What happened?"

"Your basement," panted England, sprawled on the floor, "is evil."

"Funny," said America, "that's exactly what Canada said."

"Cana- Can- What?"

"Canada. Northern north America?"

"I know who he is, you bloody idiot," lied England. He knew he knew Canada. Couldn't America just wait for a body to stop having a heart attack before throwing names around like that? He checked on the Korrigan. At the moment, she looked a lot like England did, namely, flat on the floor and immensely relieved to be somewhere besides the basement.

"I'm not even going to ask what you think is in that box," said America.

"Shut up for a moment," said England.

Oh yes, he thought, with a little twinge of guilt, Canada. An ex-colony. Him with the bear. The one everyone always forgot.

"Um, America," he said. America flinched when he heard his name. "What do other people think about your basement?"

"As far as I can tell, Iggy," said America, "It's just you and Canada who are afraid of the dark."

"Right. I'll be going now. Thanks for having me over. And uh," he said vaguely, "apologize to Mexico for me."

"Bye," said America, absent-mindedly.

England fumbled with his car keys and dropped them on the asphalt. He had brought along the fairy just to be sure America's basement was what he thought it might be, and apparently he was right. He thought he knew what was up with America's basement, but why on earth could no one else feel it? Getting the car unlocked at last, England opened the backseat and fastened the Korrigan's pet crate inside. "You did a good job back there," he told her. She glared. She didn't do anything, it was England who dragged them both all the way here. Everything was his fault. Turning away from him, she sniffed haughtily. "Fine. Be that way," he snapped. He drove angrily out of America's driveway. "I couldn't care less if you lost your home anyhow. I'm only doing this for the frog."

And Spain and Portugal, she reminded him.

"Them too," said England, suddenly even angrier than before.

* * *

**A slower chapter this time. Partly for contrast with the more exciting parts, and partly for the information. Ugh, this was so hard to write. I kept having to redo it and edit it again and again-that's why it took forever. And it ended up kind of bad anyway.  
**

**Anyone have a guess as to what's up with America's basement? **

**Oh, BTW, the reason Mexico's in there at all is I was going to include a scene with America and Mexico mock-arguing on the lawn (that's also where the wig comes from) but then I realized it was completely unnecessary and detracted from the overall story.**

**just another fma fan: Actually, no. xD sorry. I love conquistador Spain but I don't think he'll be in this fic. And thank God you thought the neurotic stuff was in character, because I was afraid that people would think it was weird. I didn't realize that it would have been a two-front war! Good point! And haha, yes, Romano's less crazy than his bro, so he still has some semblance of a conscience. Which will definitely be important later. Thanks for the praise! :3**

** (Shameless pandering for reviews time!) **

**C'mon, don't stay silent. I'm busting my ass for this story (really. I totally, seriously, honestly kind of maybe am.)**** So, constructive criticism? Flat-out flattery? Fiendishly flammable flames? Anything?  
**


	5. HIATUS

**Sorry guys. **

**This fic is going to be on semi-hiatus for a while, meaning it will be updated like, once every two months, if at all. I have an internship with an hour-long commute, a national level piano competition with no piano teacher, and so much more stuff that I'm a little afraid to tell you about because, you know, internet safety.**

**But wait, you cry! If you're the kind of person who would voluntarily put yourself through this kind of stress during vacation, wouldn't you be even more obscenely busy during the school year? Shouldn't you have more time during the summer, no matter how much is going on? And the answer is yes, I do. The thing is, on top of all the stuff I have to do, I would also like to reserve a little time for enjoying my vacation. Like, outdoors. On a roller coaster. At the mall. Not staring at a screen. I know, I know, such excuses. I'm so selfish.**

**So sorry! But, unfortunately, that's the way it is. Through sheer bloodymindedness, I will finish this fic someday. But not soon.**


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